Never Again
by Bexters
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Even after 3 years, Mycroft still pulls John in for his characteristic warehouse meetings and each time John holds on hope that maybe Sherlock will be there too. Sherlock/John reuniting. T for language


Author's Note: So many Sherlock feelings after Reichenbach. I really can't function properly, heh. I just felt the need to write John & Sherlock reuniting, mainly because I want John to punch Sherlock in the face before being all sweet. So yeah, here's this. Kinda rushed so there may be errors; forgive me darlings. Emotional distress makes for quick writing and quick editing. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Sherlock:<strong>**Never Again**

Even after three years without Sherlock, John hadn't managed to escape his annoying elder brother. Mycroft still came around to check up on John. There were still meetings in warehouses and coffee shops, though the latter was much less prominent.

But he still hadn't forgiven Mycroft. If the politician hadn't told Moriarty about Sherlock, Sherlock would've been able to keep his good name. More importantly, if Mycroft hadn't told Moriarty, Sherlock wouldn't have thrown himself from a building. Wouldn't have made John watch. Wouldn't have tried to convince him that the lies were true.

If Mycroft hadn't told Moriarty, John wouldn't be alone.

When the signature black nondescript car pulled up alongside John, he sighed and got in as expected. Anthea looked up from her Blackberry for the briefest of moments to recognize John's presence. The closest they ever really came to a regular greeting.

The ride to whatever abandoned building Mycroft had picked this time was silent. John sat glaring at the front passenger headrest. What was Mycroft going to say now?

Was he going to say sorry again? No, their monthly commiseration session was just last week.

Was he going to try and convince him to move back to 221B? The elder Holmes kept insisting that he return to that placed filled with Sherlock, as if he wanted to watch John's heart break all over again.

Maybe it was one of the rarer occasions where Mycroft wanted John's help with something, as if he thought he had gained some of Sherlock's skills. Sherlock's fantastic, amazing, completely and utterly _real_ skills.

In transit to every meeting with Mycroft, a nagging thought wiggled into John's brain. Every time this happened, part of him would hope that maybe this time, _just maybe_, Mycroft would be collecting him to tell him that Sherlock was alive, that he was back, that his name was cleared, that the world would return to how it used to be.

But that was foolish thinking. As much as he wanted Sherlock to pull out another miracle, John couldn't bring himself to believe. Not after three years. He still hoped for it, but didn't believe in it.

"Mycroft!" John shouted into the barren steel cold. No response. Tired blue eyes rolled. "Have to be dramatic don't you? I'm here! What do you want?"

"I was just finishing up a few things," Mycroft said, strolling into the room with his umbrella twirling. "And I do enjoy a great entrance."

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"A good entrance," he said to someone over John's shoulder. When the soldier didn't turn, Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded, trying to encourage realization. Groaning and playing along, John spun around.

And stopped breathing.

He couldn't believe that the man before him was real. Not after three years. Sherlock stood there paler than usual, circles under his eyes darker than usual. Gratuitous bruises and cuts speckled color across white skin. His dark curls had been cut, probably shaved, and were now slowly growing back. Those sharp, angular cheekbones now jutted from his face like weapons, skin tight against every bone. He clearly hadn't been eating. Or sleeping. And it didn't look like he had even been living. Sherlock truly appeared like a specter back from the grave.

John tentatively crossed the space between, afraid if he moved too fast Sherlock would disappear again. His hand brushed against marred skin. Once assured this was the real, genuine, _alive_ Sherlock, John screamed.

"You bastard!" As happy John was that Sherlock was alive, his first instinct was to throw his fist into that ghostly face.

Sherlock knew he deserved it. He knew the damage he did to John. The knuckles connecting with his jaw stung, but he took it without a sound.

"I watched you die! You left me alone!" he wailed. "_You left me alone, Sherlock!_"

His voice was broken and all the tears he thought he was over came back. John felt himself shaking, felt all the emotions from the past three years – especially those from _the_ day – flooding back.

"John I—" Sherlock took a step forward but was halted by another hoarse shout.

"Don't even start with me, Sherlock! Why did you let me think you were dead? Why did you let your 'only friend' think you were gone? I went to your grave damn near every day!" John's knees gave out and he collapsed into a crouching position. His face fell into his hands. Ragged sobs filled the otherwise silent warehouse, echoing off the high ceilings and enveloping everyone in the bare room.

"You left me alone," he whispered. His lungs had no more air to give and his eyes no more tears after the outpouring of emotion.

Sherlock looked to John, wrecked and on the brink of hyperventilation, and then to Mycroft. He narrowed his eyes. _You said this was a good idea. You said that he would be happy._

A well-shaped eyebrow arched. _He is, little brother._

_He's curled up in on himself. He's been crying for the past ten minutes._

_Wouldn't you do the same if roles were reversed? If you saw him die and thought him dead for years?  
><em>

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

_Comfort him. I'll excuse myself. _Mycroft turned on his heel and strutted out of the room, leaving his brother and John alone.

Sherlock held his place for a few minutes, listening to John pant and regain control of his breathing. When he thought he doctor could manage speaking again, Sherlock squatted in front of his dear friend. "John? John, can you look at me? Please, John."

A harsh sniff was his only response.

Finally, John managed to raise his head from his arms. His blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but Sherlock saw more. He saw the pain and emptiness that had lived in those eyes for the past three years. All the unsavory emotions that had been _his_ fault.

Stretching his hand out, Sherlock carefully tried to gauge John's reaction when boney fingers gripped his shoulder. There was a slight tensing of muscle, but slowly John relaxed into his friend's touch.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock? How could you do that to me?" John pleaded. His voice cracked at the end, still hyper-emotional.

"If you knew I was alive, you would find me. I needed you to be safe. I couldn't have you involved in what I was doing. I couldn't risk," Sherlock choked. "I couldn't risk your life."

"Are you going to tell me what that was?" John stared at Sherlock, raising a curious eyebrow. After a minute or so of silence John shook his head and chuckled. "Of course not, at least not yet. I know you, Sherlock. You haven't changed that much."

"John…"

"Yes?"

Taking a deep breath, he asked, "Would you return to Baker Street with me?"

Sherlock calculated all the possible results. John may punch him again. He may not be ready to go back to the place that was so quintessentially _them_. Maybe he's living with a new girlfriend. At least there wasn't a ring on his finger…

"What if someone's living in it? It's been vacant for three years."

"Mycroft."

John laughed again. "I should have known."

He saw the anxiety written across Sherlock's face. The genius needed a direct answer. John leaned forward so his wrinkled forehead rested against Sherlock's. Wrapping a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and gripping the small bit of hair he found there, John smiled.

"Yes. All I've wanted for three years is to go back there and find you. A million times over, _yes_." He felt the quiver in the last word, the shudder in his voice rippling over both him and Sherlock.

Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding his entire disappearance. John was going to forgive him. He was going to have his doctor, his blogger, _his John_ back. Leaving John behind, seeing how distraught he left him killed Sherlock inside. But that was over now. They could steadily return to life before 'the fall.'

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered into John's ear. A phrase he would no doubt have to prove in the months to come.

John launched himself forward, throwing both arms around Sherlock's neck. The younger man felt the air knocked from his lungs as he collided with the warehouse floor.

"I hate you. _Never_ do that to me again, Sherlock Holmes."

Awkwardly maneuvering his arms out from under John's warm body, Sherlock pulled John tighter to him for the first consensual hug of his life. "Never."

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><p><em>Hope you enjoyed. Review, favorite, etc. <em>

_Much love,  
><em>

~Bex


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